Chapter 7 - Confrontation Under Warm Lamps
The lounge was silent and empty, resting in the quiet hours of late afternoon before the heavy oak front doors unlocked for evening service. The warm wall lamps cast a golden glow over the polished mahogany bar and the cluster of red leather booths where the whiskey bottles and glasses still sat on a central table amid memories of broken glass. I stood behind the bar, wiping down the stainless-steel rail with a damp cloth, my eyes fixed on the entrance to the back offices. I hadn't seen Dominic since morning, but tension hummed in the air like a live wire ready to arc.
The heavy swing door from the alley creaked open, breaking the silence. Dominic Russo stepped into the dim interior, pulling off his dark suit jacket and tossing it over the back of a red booth. His sharp eyes scanned the room before locking onto me behind the bar. He walked forward with heavy, deliberate strides, his dark shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms scarred from years of rough enforcement work in the district.
"You're spending a lot of time in the back office lately, Gallagher," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register as he leaned his weight against the sticky wooden surface of the bar. "Coletti gave you a badge and a few extra hours, and suddenly you think you own the floor."
I didn't stop wiping the rail. My movements remained slow, measured, and entirely unbothered, though every muscle in my legs was coiled and ready to shift. "I do what Vincent asks me to do, Dominic. Keeping the books clean happens to be part of the security detail now."
Dominic’s eyes narrowed into hard slits, the skin around his temples tightening. He reached across the bar, his thick fingers gripping the edge of the mahogany so hard his knuckles turned white. "Listen to me, sweetheart. You don't know how things work in this city. You're a transient. A bartender who threw a lucky punch in a makeshift ring. You start digging into things that don't concern you, and you won't even make it back to that cramped apartment of yours."
I set the rag down on the metal counter, lifting my gaze to meet his without a flicker of fear. "Is that a threat, Dominic? Because if it is, you're telegraphing your punches again. Just like you did in the lounge when you dropped that whiskey bottle."
His face flushed a dark, angry crimson at the reminder of his public misstep. He pushed off the bar, stepping hard into my personal space, his large frame blocking out the warm light from the wall lamps. "I'm going to make sure Vincent realizes you're a liability before you ruin everything we've built here," he hissed, his hand twitching toward the inner pocket of his vest where a heavy steel-handled pocketknife usually rested.
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Before I could shift my weight into a counter-strike, the sharp sound of footsteps echoed across the polished floorboards near the front entrance.
"Step away from the bar, Dominic," Vincent’s voice cut through the dim room like a razor blade, cold, flat, and carrying absolute authority. Vincent emerged from the shadows near the entrance, his black vest tailored impeccably, his wristwatch catching the amber light as he stepped forward to stop the escalation before a single blow could be landed.
